My Sweetest Downfall
by crayonboxromance
Summary: A songfic inspired by Samson by Regina Spektor. A song that moves me to the core I can only hope my story does the same. Very short.


_Samson came to my bed  
Told me that my hair was red  
Told me I was beautiful and came into my bed  
Oh I cut his hair myself one night  
A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light  
And he told me that I'd done alright  
And kissed me 'til the mornin' light, the mornin' light  
And he kissed me 'til the mornin' light_

He was tall and he was strong. I always loved his hair, long as it were. Longer than mine. He was my personal Samson. His hair was his pride possession. He loved it.

We cut it one night. It was time he said.

I woke up to see him staring down at me with so much love in his glittering black eyes, warm as fiery coal. One large hand, spades I used to joke, gently touched my hair. His eyes stared intently as his fingers played and twirled strands. Gracing his face was the softest smile. I reached up my own hand to run a hand through his own dark, dark hair. I smiled too. We could barely see each other in the night of the room, only illuminated by the moon obscured by clouds.

"You know that you have red in your hair?" Came his gentle whisper as he pressed his face lightly into my hair and inhaled. I said nothing. I continued to play with his hair, unsure as to what to do with this sudden action. There was a long silence where he stayed, with this face buried in my hair and his body pressed slightly to mine. Then he withdrew and the love in his eyes had melted into a poignant distress, "you're beautiful." Another whisper. I didn't know what to say. My loveable man, always joking had just called me beautiful. He'd call me sexy. He'd call me hot. He'd call me gorgeous. But never beautiful. I always knew he meant it when he teased me but he never said it, "do you know that?" Another strand had fallen across my eye and he gently swept it away, allowing his hand to follow the strand downwards until he reached my collarbone. A block had formed in my throat.

"I always knew you thought so." My voice was low also. Both of my hands were holding his face. I stared into his sparkling eyes to decipher his feelings. I couldn't. We stared at each other for long, long moments. Finally he moved away from me. There felt like a hole where he had been, a void.

"It's time." His voice came from where he was hovering at the edge of the bed, half of his chest off of it. He returned to me with a home hairdressing kit. It took me a while to register what he was hinting at. The block that had formed in my throat gave away to a broken sob. This was it. The moment where all hope was abandoned. He shushed me a little, like a little girl who'd had a bad nightmare. This wasn't a nightmare I'd wake up from any time soon. I looked into his eyes again, now glittering from the tears. There was a determination there that I knew. Part of his strength was his will. He wanted me to be the one to cut his hair. The knowledge felt like a noose around my neck, which tightened when I realised that it was definitely going to happen. I nodded once and raised myself onto my knees. The covers fell away as I crawled over to where he had sat himself, on the edge of the bed. He flicked on the bedside light and held my hand whilst I set everything up. And slowly, slowly I cut his hair, his most loved possession other than myself, in the sombre glow of the bedside lamp. My tears fell freely and his arms held me.

Afterwards I lay in the middle of the bed. My face felt stretched as the tears dried. Shock had set in. He was in the shower, removing the bits of hair that had fallen onto his back. I was still in the middle of the bed, staring at the ceiling when he returned. Without saying a thing he lay beside me. The bed sunk slightly with his weight. His arms drifted to around my waist. He hugged me to his chest and I could feel his own tears slip down my face that touched his. I curled my legs, entwining them with his.

"You did good."

"But-"

"You did alright. You did good." I could hardly hear through the roaring in my ears. His voice was thick with emotion. The pathetic reassurances fell on cold ears. Neither of us believed it. My eyes turned to his face. I wiped away the tears. Everything was quiet. He kissed the curve of my palm and gave a small, pained smile that lasted a brief moment. Now was not a time for smiles.

"I guess we couldn't do it."

_Samson went back to bed  
Not much hair left on his head  
Ate a slice of wonder bread and went right back to bed  
Oh, we couldn't bring the columns down  
Yeah we couldn't destroy a single one  
And history books forgot about us  
And the bible didn't mention us, not even once._

We had tried to fight it. Tried to fight it with every wish, every prayer, and every hope we could muster. We tried to fight it. But we couldn't. Not in the end.

The bible tells us of a man called Samson whose strength lay in his hair. He was a man who fell in love with the wrong woman and for this woman he cut his hair. He was betrayed and she left him in prison. Nothing hurts more than leaving someone behind or being left behind. But his hair grew back and he escaped his pain. He brought down the columns. He fought and he won.

But _my_ Samson was the _real_ Samson. We weren't famous. History won't remember us an in a few years, ten maybe, our own bloodline will have forgotten us. Our granddaughters, nieces and nephews will only know our names. Nothing else.

And our columns weren't of a prison you could escape from. For those lucky enough it is. But for us it was an illness, an untameable illness that we couldn't fight no matter how hard we tried.

My only solace will be that my children will know their father in everyway but one. And he will live through them for a while.

If nothing else.


End file.
